


The Virtues and Vices of Vulnerability

by CynSyn



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst and Feels, Armageddon, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), But not explicit, Canon Compliant, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Established Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Established Relationship, Heaven is Terrible (Good Omens), Implied/Referenced Sex, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Just a little more in-depth, Lower Tadfield (Good Omens), M/M, No Dialogue, POV Crowley (Good Omens), Post-Scene: The Bandstand (Good Omens), Post-Scene: The Ritz (Good Omens), Post-Trial (Good Omens), Protective Crowley (Good Omens), Scene: Aziraphale's Trial in Heaven (Good Omens), Scene: The Bandstand (Good Omens), Scene: The Bookshop Fire (Good Omens), Scene: The Bus Ride (Good Omens), Soft Aziraphale (Good Omens), Soft Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Soft Crowley (Good Omens), Stream of Consciousness, The Night At Crowley's Flat (Good Omens), True Love, Vulnerable Crowley (Good Omens), please do not copy to other sites
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-12 10:00:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29632920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CynSyn/pseuds/CynSyn
Summary: Crowley's POV and thought processes on what it means to be vulnerable, show vs hide weakness, and love an angel through the end of times.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 32
Kudos: 84





	The Virtues and Vices of Vulnerability

**Author's Note:**

> This idea came to me recently in the wake of a lot of things. I wanted to try something a bit different. Most of my other work relies pretty heavily on dialogue, and I wanted to see if I could write something entirely dialogue free. I also usually write in past tense, but as I was writing this, it felt as if the thoughts flowed better and made more sense in present-tense. I also wanted to play around a little with the formatting (along with some of the repetition) for emphasis. I hope it works for you. 
> 
> If you see mistakes, they're all mine. If you notice something, feel free to let me know and I'll try to fix it.  
> Thanks for reading!

There is a thing inside of Crowley. He doesn’t like to admit it, and he won’t, most of the time. He can’t, really. To admit this, even to himself, would be dangerous.

Hell doesn’t appreciate vulnerability.

Ironically enough, neither does Heaven.

Sometimes, on Earth, Crowley can take a moment to stop running. He can sit down and stop looking over his shoulder. He can relax, but only just barely. He knows he can’t say everything.

He knows.

But sometimes, in the bookshop, he feels… _Safer_.

He understands he isn’t safe at all in the grand scheme of things. Heaven and Hell will always be unforgiving of anything less than their own warped senses of what is acceptable. 

He has experienced what happens when a demon shows any sort of weakness. He has personally felt the sting of sharp claws and sharper teeth.

As he runs a tongue along the soft point of a slowly sharpening fang, he knows that, were he to let his guard down, he is painfully aware of what he’s capable of, and what he could become.

He’s tired.

Crowley doesn’t _want_ control. He _wants_ to let go.

But he can’t.

He _can’t_.

Instead, he tightens his grip both internally and externally. A place for everything, and everything in its place. He is organized, decisive, and ever-vigilant in his watch. He recognizes the signs. He has to in order to survive.

It’s not a threat or paranoia when it has happened before, after all. Historically, he’s been both the victim of and witness to it all since before time began.

He remembers.

Weakness is an opening, and an opening is a vulnerability. A chink in the armor, a scale flecked bare, a moment of low self-esteem, it’s all the same. It’s a way in for those who would use him up and leave him for dead, or just try to get rid of him to begin with.

Demons don’t make friends easily.

_Usually._

Crowley thinks about Aziraphale often. Even to this day, he doesn’t truly know how it happened. He doesn’t know why he made _a choice_ that day back in 4004. He knew an angel stood at the top of that wall. Angels and demons were of the same stock, he knew, but there were certain unarguable differences.

Any argument usually ended in a smiting.

Crowley had always been aware of the way an angel was expected to behave. He remembers it every time he thinks about his own Fall. Crowley was never fond of expectations. Still isn’t, even to this day, thousands of years and uncountable moments before time began later. He believes that expectations are someone else’s ideal of what a person _should be_. They don’t take into account who a person _is_.

He _believes_.

He believes in _Her_ , but puts his faith wholly in _him_.

A demon shouldn’t love, but he does.

He loves.

He _loves_.

Crowley loves, and is _in_ love _with_ , Aziraphale.

And _he_ knows.

They _both_ do.

Aziraphale loves him in return.

It doesn’t need to be said. Saying it out loud could prove fatal. Crowley knows that Aziraphale understands this. They must hide in plain sight. Crowley hopes that Aziraphale knows that when humans call their loved ones _angel_ to show affection, it’s because Crowley made that so. Even if he can’t say this, he hopes Aziraphale knows.

He hopes.

His angel is soft. Within the liminal space of the bookshop, Aziraphale calls him all manner of four-letter words, like love, and nice, and good, and kind.

Kindness is often mistaken for weakness.

Sometimes, it’s not a mistake at all.

He’s weak.

Aziraphale is soft, and it makes Crowley _weak_.

If asked, Crowley would say it was only a fuck. What demon worth their ash wouldn’t want to fuck an angel? But he knows, deep down, that isn’t the right word. It never has been. Crowley knows better. He knows, but cannot dare speak it, that what they do is so much more than that.

For a demon, making love with anyone, especially the enemy, is a danger and a liability.

But beneath the softness, Crowley knows _undoubtedly_ that Aziraphale is strong. As angels go, _his_ angel was built to protect. When Crowley lays with an angel at his back, wrapped within the shield of a loving embrace, he closes his eyes.

He’s safe.

 _Safer_ , anyway.

Crowley knows that Aziraphale understands. Well, some of it. He isn’t entirely convinced Aziraphale understands that it isn’t _only_ Crowley who would be in danger. As if Aziraphale had forgotten what Heaven did to a third of the other angels during the Fall.

As if Aziraphale had forgotten that Heaven had been chipping away at _him_ , bit by bit, reprimand by reprimand, for _eons_.

But if his angel needed to willfully ignore this, so be it. It wasn’t as if Crowley wasn’t also ignoring certain things in order to survive, to protect them both. An angel has more to lose than a demon who has already lost everything.

 _Almost_ everything.

He sighs.

He would gladly stay within those strong arms for eternity. He would _gladly_ lose himself within his angel, if it meant that he could relax. If they were safe, he could let down his guard and expose his soft underbelly without fear.

He can’t.

The world is ending. It’s all going to end up in a puddle of burning goo. Crowley loves the world, but not as much as he loves Aziraphale.

He loves.

He knows he’s loved.

He…

He _hesitates_.

He _hurts_.

Crowley feels something for Aziraphale he hasn’t felt in almost 170 years.

He doubts.

He has to go. Not home. Home is standing behind him, alone in the bandstand. Crowley has to go back to his flat. He needs to think.

He wonders.

Crowley wonders what he did wrong as he tosses and turns in his bed. Probably _everything_ , he realizes, and quickly amends his mental meandering to only include things pertaining to Aziraphale. He gets up and gets dressed. Perhaps his angel knew someone might have been watching as they stood in that bandstand. Crowley understands this all too well. He can’t very well blame Aziraphale for lying to him. He won’t. Not when the truth leaves them both vulnerable.

Crowley knows what he must do.

He plans.

The cartoons help.

They _do_.

Until they don’t.

Crowley is well-practiced at playing it cool around other demons. He knows this is the only way to survive even in the best of times.

This is not one of those times.

He’s scared.

Time to go.

He needs…

Aziraphale.

Crowley needs to convince Aziraphale to come with him. He doesn’t know specifically what to say or how to say it, but he’s confident that when he finds his angel, he’ll think of _something_. He wouldn’t usually lie to Aziraphale, but this is literally the end of the world. If it means getting them as far away from the threat of Hell, the grasp of Heaven, and the imminent battle on the Earth as possible, so be it.

What was his point?

 _Aziraphale_.

Crowley would apologize for… _Whatever_ it was that Aziraphale was upset about. There was probably _something_ he had done _somewhere_ that would make it sincere enough, he supposed.

He whines.

Crowley doesn’t actually _want_ forgiveness. He wants that blasted angel to get into the car so they can leave. They can argue about it along the way.

He sighs.

There’s no time.

Crowley is frustrated. He knows he’s not really going to leave Aziraphale behind. That’s a non-starter. He will _not_. But he doesn’t want to lead Hell to Aziraphale. He can’t bear the thought of something happening to his angel.

He leaves.

Crowley cannot remember a time when Hastur didn’t hate him with every fiber of his rotten being. It has been said that time heals all wounds.

Crowley disagrees.

Time has nearly run out.

Crowley never expected it to smell quite like that. Not that he had any expectations, but he is surprised nonetheless. He had _hoped_ that would have been the end of it when he set the trap. It’s a regret he doesn’t have time to entertain. He has to come up with something to get away, to get to Aziraphale. He has to protect—

His phone rings.

He smiles.

Aziraphale is still on his side. There’s still time before the end of the world, and now he has a plan. _Part_ of a plan. He’ll figure the rest out when he gets done with Hastur.

 _Hastur_.

Hastur said Aziraphale’s _name_.

Hell knows.

They _know_.

Crowley doesn’t know who else might have been sent topside, but the calm he felt at the sound of Aziraphale’s voice is immediately replaced by dread. He hopes there’s still time to get to Aziraphale before anyone _else_ does.

He pulls up to the bookshop and jumps out of the car as flames rise high up into the sky.

He’s frightened.

No.

 _Terrified_.

Crowley doesn’t think he has ever felt this strong of a fear since he first became a demon. It’s the _only_ thing he _can_ feel.

He can’t feel Aziraphale anywhere.

For the second time in his ageless existence, Crowley Falls.

He _aches_.

Crowley clings to the first thing he can reach that is otherwise untouched by flame and flood. Quietly, he leaves the bookshop with far less hope than when he entered.

It’s too late.

His world is already gone.

He drinks.

He wants to black out and never have to wake up to an existence without Aziraphale. Crowley knows Aziraphale wouldn’t want him to do that… But Aziraphale is _gone_ and he doesn’t get any say in it now. If Aziraphale really didn’t want him to drink himself into oblivion, he’d damn well be here to—

He squints.

Talisker isn’t the only spirit at his table. Perhaps Aziraphale has a say in this after all.

Crowley scowls at all the traffic as he tries to make his way to Tadfield. He has a date with an angel at the end of the world, and he’s already running late.

He groans.

Once again, Crowley finds himself the victim of his own actions. In his defense, it seemed like a good idea at the time.

He sneers.

There are two things in Crowley’s life that are absolute. No one gets between Crowley and his angel, and no one _but_ his angel touches his car.

Hastur is in Aziraphale’s seat. This is unacceptable.

Crowley had always worried loving Aziraphale was a vulnerability. In the past, it had been. But now?

He’s _empowered_.

With nothing to lose, and everything to gain, Crowley is more than delighted to show all of Heaven and Hell just what happens when a vulnerable person is backed against the wall. Hastur’s screams are satisfying in a way he had only dreamed of before, but would cherish for the rest of his existence, however long or short it is at this point.

With a fiery will, a lead foot, and a bitchin’ soundtrack, Crowley is once again on his way.

Crowley feels Aziraphale more strongly with each mile. It urges him to go faster, faster, faster still. The car vibrates around him, what’s left of it as it is continually consumed by hellish flames.

He’s relieved.

Crowley would recognize Aziraphale in _any_ body. He prefers Aziraphale remain within his own, though occasionally he doesn’t mind when Aziraphale slips into _his_ , but that’s a slightly different situation. He hopes there might be another chance for that in the future, if there _is_ a future.

He stops.

He drops.

He barely registers what’s happening around him. He’s too focused on the burning remnants of a trusty steed that’s been by his side for nearly a century. It’s only the looming threat of additional danger that pulls him from his reverie as he blows a kiss to his beloved Bentley. It’s time to go.

Was it a good car?

The _best_.

It’s strange to Crowley how he somehow remembers Adam even after forgetting him for the past eleven years. He wonders if that should have been a tip-off with Warlock, not recognizing him. Not that he had a frame of reference at the time. It’s not as if he made a habit of delivering antichrists to satanic nuns for switching.

He’d have to think about this more later, if there _is_ a later.

He’s busy.

His angel is back at his side again, but is it too late?

He falters.

Aziraphale knows Crowley better anyone in all of existence. Crowley would like to think he knows Aziraphale just as well. Aziraphale considers Crowley a skeptical optimist. Crowley begrudgingly agrees, only as much as he knows to prepare for the worst while working towards the best. It makes Aziraphale happy to think this, and so Crowley generally accepts it.

Usually.

Right now? Crowley has been through entirely too much. He lost _everything_ today.

Everything.

The thing about Aziraphale is that he brings hope. He serves as a reminder of what Crowley wants from his life, as well as a beacon when he’s adrift. Crowley has never felt more adrift than he does now.

He’s overwhelmed.

Aziraphale’s threat was putting things into perspective. But it wasn’t a threat, was it? The idea of never hearing Aziraphale’s voice again, it doesn’t bear thinking about. Crowley has _already_ thought more on that today than he ever wanted to. If he doesn’t do _something_ right now, everything will end.

He understands.

Crowley understands that they’re both desperate to stay together. He understands that Aziraphale isn’t giving an ultimatum. He’s detailing the landscape. They just found one another again. Aziraphale is in a brand-new corporation. They are literally standing where the world should have ended. Well, Aziraphale is standing. Crowley staggered specifically groundward when Satan Himself appeared. But that’s not the point.

Each second past Armageddon is new and unknown. Crowley knows Aziraphale is correct. They can’t give up now.

He growls.

Time stops.

He doesn’t know what to do for certain, but this buys them some time, even if only a minute. Maybe that’s all they need. It’s one more minute than they had before.

Crowley wants more minutes.

They both do.

Luckily for Crowley, Aziraphale, and everyone else on Earth, Adam wants more minutes, too.

Crowley sits watching Aziraphale as they share an indirect kiss through the communal communion within a bottle of wine on a bus bench.

It hurts.

Telling Aziraphale his bookshop, his home, burned down the first time was hard enough. It’s _torture_ the second time.

He asks.

This isn’t the first time he’s asked.

The offer has always been there.

Old habits die hard. He isn’t hurt by the initial decline, not this time. He understands how hard this is for Aziraphale. He knows his angel well enough to recognize a desperate attempt to cling to a past that, for better or worse, is gone.

It’s _gone_.

They enter the bus, as they had so many times before, but before Aziraphale can sit down in the seat in front of him, Crowley reaches for Aziraphale’s hand.

He accepts.

Hand in hand, Aziraphale settles in next to Crowley. He smiles at his angel. It’s a small, broken thing, but it comforts them both. With a yawn, Crowley scoots in closer to Aziraphale to lean his head on the angel’s shoulder, closing his eyes and relaxing for the first time in he can’t remember how long.

He dreams.

Crowley dreams of the warmth of a sunny day they were never promised. He dreams of a cool breeze wafting through the open windows of a cottage, fragrant with all manner of botanical scents from the lush garden surrounding it. There are books and clutter stacked on shelves, forgotten teacups on tables, and in the corners, but he doesn’t mind.

He’s _home_.

Crowley wakes to a gentle nudge when the bus stops in front of his building. It isn’t strictly a bus stop, but for tonight, it doesn’t matter. All that matters is that they’ve survived and been granted another day. Crowley knows that this may have merely delayed the inevitable, but isn’t it worth it? Isn’t it worth however many more hours, minutes, and seconds they can have together? Doesn’t the world _owe_ them this much, after everything? Don’t the humans owe them this and more? Doesn’t She?

He’s greedy.

He knows.

They’ve come too far. This can’t be their last night together. Crowley is not ready to give this up, and never will be. He looks into pensive, mournful eyes, somehow both as full of love as they are sadness.

He’s nervous.

Crowley clings to Aziraphale tightly as they lay together in his bed. Strong, loving arms wrap around him, pulling them so close it’s almost impossible to tell one from the other.

He’s loved.

He trembles.

He gasps.

He releases.

He **_loves_**.

Crowley, breathless, pliant, and still wrapped around his loving angel in every conceivable way possible, looks up to study Aziraphale’s face. He can see the creases and furrows lining a map of thought across Aziraphale’s brow. He reaches up to trace a path towards the conclusion. Aziraphale leans into the touch, closing his eyes as he covers Crowley’s hand within his own.

Eyes the color of everything fly open in epiphany, brows lifting to clear the way. Aziraphale looks down at Crowley with excitement. He leans down to press his lips quickly across every centimeter of Crowley’s face as he whispers the answer to the one question Crowley has been too scared to ask tonight.

Crowley lets this revelation wash over him like a warm, gentle rain. The corner of his lip quirks gently in amusement and adoration of the clever bastard above him.

He nods.

Crowley feels as though he’s falling, but not in a bad way. He’s surrounded by a soft safety. It’s warm and inviting. Maybe falling isn’t the right word for this. He feels liquid, like he’s rotgut whiskey being poured into a beautiful decanter to conceal the substandard quality within.

Something shifts.

Part of Crowley is mingling with something else. It’s an incredible feeling, like dissolving into pure, unfiltered love. As the two parts mix and combine, he is reminded that he’s not substandard at all. He’s so much more, more than he could comprehend.

He’s _good_.

The feeling, the way the waves of love crash and lap at him as they pass next to him, it would be overwhelming if it didn’t feel so _right_.

He’s cherished.

Crowley sees his own eyes smiling back at him for the first time in his entire existence.

He relaxes.

They sleep.

Crowley is less nervous than he was, but it is still difficult to leave Aziraphale alone. He knows he must, if their plan is to work, but what if it doesn’t?

He worries.

He—

The bookshop.

It’s intact.

It’s so surreal. Crowley remembers, all too vividly, how it was engulfed in flames not twenty-four hours prior. He pauses, staring at it, before convincing himself to go inside to be certain. Certain of what, he doesn’t know.

His emotions churn inside of him. He wants to smile, to be happy for Aziraphale. And he is, he is… But the feelings, though echoes, are still there. He knows how it worked out. He knows that Aziraphale is all right _now_. He **_knows_**. But the last time he stood inside of this very bookshop…

He didn’t.

Cautiously, he looks around, tracing his finger along a few things if for no other reason than to ground himself to this new version of reality.

The new books help. 

They’re a way to separate his memories with this new reality. They fit, but they did not exist in his past. Crowley begins to realize that Adam must have set things right, or at least, the way he saw fit.

Crowley closes his eyes while taking a deep breath. He releases it slowly, then looks up through the oculus. Reluctantly, he realizes Aziraphale _is_ right. As skeptical as he is that this might work, he admits in this moment that he is, in fact, an optimist. He lifts his blackened heart and tarnished soul in request for Aziraphale’s safety. Crowley hopes that She might accidentally hear and abide the question of a demon if coming from his current location and configuration.

He prays.

With a small, strained smile, he leaves the bookshop to meet up with his hidden angel in the park.

They barely have time to reassure one another before Heaven strikes. In an instant, he’s bound, gagged, and being dragged away before Aziraphale has a chance to see the other angels…

Or the demons.

He panics.

Crowley tries to shout, to warn Aziraphale, but between his hesitation to ensure he didn’t call out the wrong name, along with the gag, he’s unsuccessful. He watches in horror as Aziraphale is struck in the back of the head and shoulders.

Crowley wants to scream, claw, and destroy everything touching him, but he can’t. If he has any chance of saving Aziraphale, he can’t risk giving away their swap. It frustrates him to the point of almost physical pain as he watches Aziraphale crawling towards him before passing out face down on the ground.

Without his sunglasses, Crowley feels even more vulnerable. He hopes he isn’t wearing that vulnerability across Aziraphale’s face. An angel puts a bag over his head. Perhaps it’s a blessing.

He weeps.

After some time, Crowley finds himself tied to a chair, the bag pulled from his head to let an overpoweringly-bright and sterile light force its way through his eyelids. He knew this was coming, but it still unsettles him as his eyes adjust.

He remembers.

Crowley knows he must remain strong. Aziraphale is strong. He has to convince the angels that he is as strong as Aziraphale. No, that he _is_ Aziraphale. He can’t let his own weakness betray his angel. Not when everything is riding on this. Not while his angel is down in Hell in his place. Crowley knows he must be convincing enough to pass for Aziraphale during his trial.

He can do this.

Crowley will do it for him.

He calms.

Crowley keeps his face as neutral as he possibly can despite the unadulterated hatred filling him at the things he’s hearing. This isn’t a trial at all.

It’s an execution.

A secret, hidden execution, to erase a spot in Heaven’s ledger.

How these fuckers haven’t Fallen is beyond him. Crowley assumes it might be because the Lords of Hell don’t want the competition. Not once before now did he ever think he’d long for the justice and honesty of Hell.

A person knows where they stand with a demon. And if they aren’t sure, they need only ask. Might not even need to do that. Give it a minute. The demon will find a way to let you know in no uncertain terms.

He glowers.

It’s time to do what he came to do.

Crowley, purely out of respect for what he knows Aziraphale would do, tries one last time to talk things out with the Archangels.

He’s rebuffed.

Crowley does his best to hide his smirk as the Archangels gasp in fear while he, unharmed allows the Hellfire to swirl and twirl around himself with a roll of his shoulders and a crack of his neck. Aziraphale is strong. Aziraphale is powerful. Aziraphale is _everything_ to Crowley.

It’s time to show Heaven what happens when you attempt to pin an angel like Aziraphale down.

Crowley, filled now with a blend of amusement and incandescent rage, cannot resist. He blows a flare of Hellfire out towards the Archangels, watching as they jump back in fear, narrowly missing being hit.

Crowley’s only regret is not having taken a deeper breath first for a further reach.

He grins.

Crowley truly enjoys the panic and fear in the Archangel Fucking Gabriel’s voice as he toes at the stones keeping the Hellfire spout contained. Crowley knows that were he to knock just one of them loose that it would spread like, well, like Hellfire. He looks down at the neat circle of stones, then back up at the Archangels, a wicked smile forming as he pulls his foot back once more, indicating the upcoming kick.

Crowley laughs as the exit doors fling themselves open, the sound of the Archangels begging him to leave and never return sweet upon his borrowed ears.

He exits.

Crowley almost forgets himself as he searches through the park for his favorite sight in a crowd, that halo platinum curls. He rolls his eyes at his error, realizing that he may have hidden his angel too well with his own corporation. On the surface, Crowley might appear to stand out visually, but over millennia, he had built in the natural demonic defense of remaining unseen in plain sight.

Crowley closes his eyes and follows his heart.

He sits down next to Aziraphale on the bench. Crowley already knows that there isn’t anyone else nearby, but he humors his angel and checks again, setting a little demonic miracle in the process to mask them further.

As much as he has enjoyed being inside of Aziraphale’s body (for a change), he is eager to look into his partner’s eyes again. He longs to touch Aziraphale, to hold him. He’s ready to swap back.

He’s happy.

Crowley listens with rapt attention as Aziraphale recounts his trip to Hell, right down to the request for a rubber duck.

He laughs.

Crowley loves Aziraphale with his entire heart.

He loves.

He’s loved.

Once again, it’s time to leave the garden and forge a path to a new destiny.

Together.

And if an angel, after a sip of champagne, and for the first time in public, tells Crowley he loves _him_ , that’s fine. The bashful flush of Crowley’s cheeks and ears as he tilts his head affectionately in return is enough.

It’s enough.

He’s _enough_.

Loving Aziraphale isn’t weakness. Being loved by Aziraphale isn’t a vulnerability.

It’s a blessing.

He knows.


End file.
